The Science of Musicality
by Baratsuki
Summary: A growing collection of drabbles and oneshots based on songs I find inspiring. There is John/Sherlock in here, but not always. Rated T in case future songs have "dirty words".


A/N: I usually don't like doing drabbles/song fics, I decided I needed to after hearing "Keep Breathing" by Ingrid Michaelson. My beta for this is daslieblingsfach, just if you're wondering why the editing is awesome (yay betas). So, this story is just a collection of drabbles/oneshots based on songs, hope you like it! :D

Night is made of darkness; darkness and the quiet ascension into the abyss of the subconscious mind. Night is so dark I begin to believe that I will never see again.

It has always been your biggest fear to go blind and I cannot blame you because I feel it now. I must admit, I have wondered why it has worried you so much in the past. I suppose I can understand many things you used to tell me now much better than before. I don't often like to think of you anymore or any of the things you did, the things you still do, the things that I catch myself watching you do.

Don't judge a book by everything written inside; it is what lies in the small print that counts. Even with such enlightening words the night grows darker still and with it my feelings intensify. I lie awake in the crushing blackness of my own room, observing the ceiling and praying for a light and that's when I hear it. It seems like a cry from a frightened child at first- quiet and unsure- but as the moment intensifies so does the quality of the noise. There is pressure in the air around me, dense, but clear at the same time. I stare unblinkingly into the dark of my own ceiling, not daring to move, not daring to break the tension of the storm cloud that hangs overhead.

I can hear the thunder as it rumbles. I can feel the aching silence just after. I can smell the fear from your room and taste the moisture of the rain even from behind my closed window. I know that your mind is scrambling as the thunder grows louder. You're trying to find other things to think of, but failing to do so. You are human, I remember, and you have a heart. I have one too, even though I don't like to acknowledge it. That's your fault, I remember, as I stare blankly toward the window and the icy flakes collecting on the window sill. It's spring and far too late for snow, but the December weather reminds me of when you weren't afraid to be afraid sometimes. I think that if you were in here and could hear my thoughts you would agree. You'd do it wordlessly, of course, because you've got this way of telling me things with a look. I can still feel how frightened you are through the wall and it's growing still. I don't want you to be frightened. I'd rather you were asleep, and breathing deeply with even heartbeats on the other side of the wall, but you're not. I want to help you because -though I am loath to admit it- I miss having you around. You're always gone someplace or another, for one reason or another, and I hate it. But I could have never admitted that to you out loud. You'd have laughed, or left, or been so shocked you wouldn't have done anything at all. But I'm going to have to be more careful, because thinking about you is much harder than it used to be.

I draw a picture of a leaf in the ice on the window because I'm ready for winter to just be over and for my icy shell to melt with the leftover snow. I hear you sit up in bed, and moan in emotional distress into your hands and I still can't bear to move. The air keeps me pinned to my sheets, but my body wants to move. I can hear you get up and out of bed and pace back and forth in your room, talking to yourself, reassuring, but your mind is too far gone. I turn my attention to the blackness of the ceiling again, ignoring your frantic movement in your room. I shouldn't have to worry about such trivial matters as your emotional state, or your nightmares, your irrational fear of storms. I'm beginning to drift into my subconscious just when you come into my room.

You don't say anything to me. I don't expect you to. I usually have such high expectations of you, but not now, not in your weakest hour yet. I can tell you've been crying, even without looking at you, because you're sniffling and wiping at your eyes with your sleeves like a child. You just stand there in the doorway for a while, blocking my mental processes with your presence. I finally resolve to turn my head to you, and you stare straight back, threatening to break again. The corners of my mouth turn up slightly, my best attempt at a comforting smile for you. I open my duvet and move closer to the chill of the window, you walk lightly over to me and climb in gratefully. You say nothing, and settle in against my chest, like you've done so many times before. And even if tomorrow, when the sun shows its unkind rays, I act as though there is nothing more important to me than my work, remember that love is alive.

For you, it is always alive.


End file.
